


they can't take that away from me

by hapax (hapaxnym)



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: -Ish, Aziraphale Loves Crowley (Good Omens), BAMF Aziraphale (Good Omens), Bodyswap, Chronic Pain, Crowley Loves Aziraphale (Good Omens), Episode: s01e06 The Very Last Day of the Rest of Their Lives, For Someone's Sake KISS ALREADY, Idiots in Love, Ineffable Idiots (Good Omens), Look Ma No Footnotes, M/M, Mutual Pining, Oblivious Aziraphale (Good Omens), Oblivious Crowley (Good Omens), Pining, Protective Crowley (Good Omens), Self-Esteem Issues, Songfic, Ye Gods So Much Yearning, Yearning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-23
Updated: 2020-04-26
Packaged: 2021-03-01 18:35:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,458
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23811676
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hapaxnym/pseuds/hapax
Summary: He was simply … wearing Aziraphale.Or, more properly, Aziraphale’s physical corporation.  He was wearing his body, just like that same body was wearing those fussy, old-fashioned clothes.  Had been wearing them for almost two hundred years.The problem was that Aziraphale had been wearing this body for over six thousand years.Because the one thing this fandom doesn't have enough of, it's bodyswap fics.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 105
Kudos: 307





	1. A-One

**Author's Note:**

> Rated T for canon-typical swearing.
> 
> I know that I'm supposed to in the middle of a big AU fic, but I was mugged by this story and it refused to let me do anything else. I thought it was gonna be a one-shot, but once I hit 5000 words, I thought I should break it in half.

_We may never never meet again, on that bumpy road to love  
Still I'll always, always keep the memory of ..._

His name was Aziraphale, Princi-

No. His name was _Crowley_. He was a demon. Serpent of Eden. 

He was simply … wearing Aziraphale. Or, more properly, Aziraphale’s physical corporation. He was wearing his body, just like that same body was wearing those fussy, old-fashioned clothes. Had been wearing them for almost two hundred years.

The problem was that Aziraphale had been wearing this body for over _six thousand_ years.

And the body had shaped itself around the angel. The skin and muscles, the bones and sinews. The very connections between the neurons. They had all become … accustomed to being Aziraphale: Sitting immobile in silent contemplation. Moving gently with precise determination. Fidgeting nervously from worried anticipation. Tasting and touching and gazing kindly upon the good things of Creation. Lots of - _ations_ , really. 

The only one Crowley knew anything about was _tempt_ ation. This body was very good at that, too, but the demon was pretty sure that one wasn’t on purpose.

He stood in the street staring at his, no, _Aziraphale’s_ bookshop. The bookshop that shouldn’t be there. The bookshop that Crowley had said… the bookshop where _he_ had been, just yesterday, engulfed in flames, while he had screamed and sobbed and searched for an angel who was gone, gone forever…

These fingers wanted to wring together nervously. This torso wanted to wriggle excitedly. This face wanted to frown thoughtfully, and then beam joyously. This brain wanted to think it was Aziraphale.

Yet at the same time, this corporation also … _welcomed_ Crowley; and wasn’t that a kick to the head? The body seemed to flutter about him eagerly, as if it were saying, “Yes, yes, do come in and make yourself at home! Let these eyes see for you. Permit these lungs to breathe for you. Would you like this heart beat for you? Listen and handle and smell and think and feel; take, take all of this for your own!” It had to be Aziraphale’s fault, stupid kind _trusting_ angel, too good for his own, well, _good_. Allowing a disgusting demon to enter, to trample all over this lovely, perfect corporation with his filthy metaphysical feet.

Crowley had never thought to do anything this body wanted him to do. Hadn’t ever considered that doing any of them was an option, honestly. But now he needed to convince everyone else he had always done them. That he was really an angel, that he was really _his_ angel; but at the same time remembering who he really was, deep in his essence –in whatever it was that passed for a “soul” in a demon. In a broken, burned, ruined, fouled, _Fallen_ being.

He took in the deep breath that he didn’t need, but that this body desperately wanted. He felt Aziraphale’s heart hammer in his chest as he put his hand on the door to the shop. 

It opened for him, of course. But then, it always had.

~o*0*o~

So this was what it felt like, to be a demon.

Well, not to _be_ a demon. He wasn’t a demon, not _technically_. He was who he had always been: Aziraphale, Principality, Guardian of the Eastern Gate. He had never Fallen. He still had his Grace.

He was _not_ …

Crowley had never told him how much it _hurt_.

Of course it must have hurt, at the start. Aziraphale wasn’t naïve. Nobody could have taken, what was the way the demon put it, a _million_ - _light-year freestyle dive into a pool of boiling sulphur_ and expect to feel perfectly tickety-boo. (Notwithstanding the way Crowley always joked about it; _nothing to see here, move along_ …) But he had never suspected that the pain never went away. That every nerve ending in this corporation was on constant, screaming high alert. That the whisper of fabric over his skin, the brush and flex of his hair, his nails, the slide and scrape of his very breath, was a continual searing assault.

That every serpentine, sensual step concealed the way he was dancing on the edge of red-hot knives.

Good Lord, how did the dear boy _bear_ it? ( _It's not that bad when you get used to it._ )

Well, there was no reason to require him to be “used to it” any longer! Instinctively, Aziraphale braced his fingers to snap up, no, _down_ the power necessary to infuse this body with a healing miracle. Only to let his hand fall to his side at the last second. 

If Crowley, if _any_ demon, had the ability to make the pain go away, he would have done so before Time had even begun. For the angel to do so now, therefore, would surely be glaringly obvious where he needed to go. Which was the only place in all of Creation where Divine energy never _ever_ reached. 

Besides, now that he thought about it, it seemed like it would be a dreadful violation to tamper with this corporation without the demon’s permission. The only reason Aziraphale could even think at all was that Crowley’s body had somehow … _protected_ him. It had instantly curled around his angelic essence, cradling him gently, shielding him from the worst of the agony. It would feel somehow like an insult to encroach upon its infernal integrity, even with the kindest of intentions.

Even though it made every one of his angelic instincts rebel in furious protest, that a person as decent, kind, fundamentally _good_ as Crowley should suffer in this way … well, that was Ineffability for you. No wonder, he thought with the sharp-edged quirk of the mouth that apparently was this body’s version of a grin, Crowley could be so very sarcastic on the … Oh.

Oh, _my_.

Parked there jauntily on the kerb. Almost certainly in an illegal spot … Oh, it _couldn’t_ be. 

He could still feel the burning leather, smell the acrid smoke. The bite of asphalt as he fell to his knees, the sting of tears in his eyes as he helplessly watched the explosion.

Oh, but it _was_. His good old girl.

No, not _his_. _Crowley’s._ Crowley’s automobile. Yes. Crowley was going to be so very happy.

Before this body turned to hail a cab, the attached face lit up with a smile that—for the first and last time—was purely, utterly, ethereal.

~o*0*o~

Crowley wasn’t exactly sure how he had made it to the park without mishap. It wasn’t just that he wasn’t used to a body so steady and solid, instead of perpetually wavering between walking and slithering. It wasn’t just that he was confused without his accustomed senses, navigating a world that seemed oddly flat and muted, as if he had been suddenly transported inside one of his mobile games.

It was mostly that there was so much to _look_ at!

He tried (with only middling success) not to gawk like an idiot, wandering about in a riot of color and shape. So this was what flowers looked like to human eyes! And trees, and benches, and rocks, and, and those metal-pillar-things alongside the path, all of which he could _see_ , even without moving around to capture their stationary forms! And the people … no longer intriguing bundles of heat and scent, true, but simply amazing in their subtle variations of shade, and texture, and style. He was afraid of coming off as a right proper creeper, so eagerly did he stare, but he didn’t understand how the humans could _not_ … After all, just look at that fellow over there, undulating down the path towards him, long elegant limbs free and loose, face freckled like the starry night sky, hair ablaze like the glowing dawn, oddly _familiar_ somehow, and …

Oh.

Crowley had often been told that he looked “like sin in leather trousers”, and he had accepted it without much thought. Demons, after all, were perfectly aware of what “sin” looked like: it was disgusting and wrong and nasty and _ugly_ , and therefore their right and proper habit. He was pretty sure of what “sin” looked like to angels, too: it looked like _nothing_ , like an empty void, like the utter antithesis of all that was good and holy and true.

He had had no idea what “sin” looked like to humans.

His body looked _delicious._

He looked edible and enticing and oh, so desirable, and the body he was currently wearing wanted to lick him from eyebrows to boots. It felt burning hot and icy cold all over, shivering like it had been struck by lightning and utterly, preternaturally still. It yearned to press frantic kisses to every inch of that sinuous form. It wanted to run away and never be seen by anyone ever again.

Crowley honestly would have been pretty chuffed at the effect, and eagerly taking notes on how he could use his apparently ever-so- _tempting_ corporation once he was again inhabiting it, if every facet of his consciousness wasn’t busy writhing in horrified shame at the way he was allowing his foul demonic nature to pollute the angel’s pure corporation with his filthy desires without Aziraphale here to pilot the blessed thing.

Fortunately, he had had a _lot_ of practice in shutting down—well, not that _exact_ sensation, but close enough. He sternly disciplined both mind and body (not without a whiny little tantrum from the latter) and gave Aziraphale-in-his-body a civil nod. “Crowley,” he managed to utter, in a decent imitation of the angel’s most polite tones.

~o*0*o~

Aziraphale couldn’t help but be fascinated.

It was all so very _interesting_ , to experience the world through Crowley’s senses! Vision was … confusing, to say the least, mostly dizzying impressions of temperature and movement, and he was frankly grateful for the dark lenses that allowed him to ignore most of the input from those slitted eyes. But he found that he didn’t need to see to get around, not at all. Subtle variations of sound constantly informed this body of where it was and what was around, not so much through the ears but through a humming vibration against the skin. He supposed that the hyper-sensitivity of the nerves, painful as it was, was … not exactly a _blessing_ , no, but definitely useful. He experimented with a barely audible hiss (oh, such delightful _fun_ ) and was astonished by how much he could detect through the slightest echo.

And the _scents_! Simply overwhelming! How had he never noticed before, that rusted iron had a distinctive smell, quite different from steel? That the cement walk carried the faintest remnant of every shoe that had touch it, in an immersive overlay? That the earth and grass and even the air were dense with ever-shifting currents of scent, active and busy and _alive_? 

Aziraphale was fairly certain that if he could experience all of these odors in his own body (which, fortunately, he could not), he would have found most of them distasteful, even unpleasant. But this corporation positively hungered for the steady flow of such information, and he saw no reason to over-rule it. Indeed, he wondered if he might persuade Crowley (once he found him, of course) to go out for a few nibbles; he flicked out a narrow tongue, and felt almost giddy at what that exquisitely acute appendage might tell him about sushi. Or, good heavens, _chocolate_ …

One oddly significant scent, familiar yet extraordinary, reached this corporation, and it whipped around before Aziraphale was even aware of the motion. He perceived a heady mix of, hmm… petrichor and sunlight. Dusty leather and ink-stained paper. Madagascar vanilla and Chateauneuf-du-Pape. Safety and welcome and joy and ... _home_? Surely not, but …

The slits in the reptilian eyes dilated behind the dark lenses as the angel recognized the figure coming towards him. Still, Aziraphale was not prepared at all for the unexpected tingling flush that swept the body. For the sudden juddering of its heart. For the peculiar ache in its arms, nor the migration of heated blood towards … _oh_. Oh, _dear_.

Oh, the _poor boy_.

Was this what it meant, to be a demon? To be forever at the mercy of one’s base physical desires? How did he even _function_?

And to be so captive to random sinful urges, that even such an unprepossessing figure as a plain, middle-aged, somewhat rotund bookseller would leave this corporation quite unmoored in a fog of lust? Well, thank the Almighty that Aziraphale had been entirely too preoccupied with thoughts of dessert to have paid much attention to any of the undoubtedly more attractive humans wandering about the park! Without the demon’s millennia of experience and discipline, he might have done something quite _disgraceful_.

Fortunately, Aziraphale had his own storehouse of practice in self-control to draw upon. Upon receiving a measured greeting from Crowley-in-his-body, he did _not_ permit this corporation’s fingers to seize the other’s lapels and slam him up against the nearest tree. Instead, he merely lifted an eyebrow and responded “Angel.”

~o*0*o~

Crowley did not expect Heaven’s flunkies to grab him from behind. One minute he had been holding a vanilla flake, protectively circling his own body to get into the right ( _wrong_ ) position, eyeing the unwelcome appearance of a sinister anthropomorphic metaphor; then tape had been slapped across the body’s mouth, rough hands pinched his shoulders, and he was being hauled away.

Yet somehow the corporation _had_ been prepared. Made sense, he supposed; can’t be inhabited by a Principality for all that time without picking up a trick or too. It took every bit of control he could exert to force the body not to struggle, not knock those stupid Heavenly thugs senseless, not to wrest an iron railing free and turn it into an impromptu flaming sword. Fuck, even Crowley had forgotten until now that Aziraphale was a veteran of the Rebellion; these morons wouldn’t have had a _chance_.

He could see it now, as he glimpsed his own body. How the iced lolly was thrown away without a thought, as his limbs took on a fierce martial stance they had certainly never exhibited before. He caught Aziraphale’s eye and shook the head frantically. This was _not_ what they had agreed upon! The idiot angel was allowing his instinctual protective nature to override the plan, and was going to ruin everything. 

Crowley watched helplessly as one lanky hand reached up as though to pull down the very wrath of Heaven in a destructive smiting. NO! No, no, Aziraphale would never forgive himself if he injured some low-level angelic minion …

The demon never thought he would feel so relieved to see Hastur bash a crowbar across his own head and knock his body unconscious.

~o*0*o~


	2. Anna-Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale and Crowley face their respective trials, each calling on their memories of the other.  
> They are not happy with the way they are treated. At all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so sorry! I know that I added another chapter to the total, but I think I figured out a way to shove these emotionally constipated dumbasses past their idiocy (at least a little bit) and still remain in-character and (mostly) canon-compliant. But it will take me another chapter.
> 
> I blame all y'all, for your incredibly kind support and generous kudos and insightful comments. You make me want to do my very best for you!

~o*0*o~

Eternal unending pain in every cell of one’s body, Aziraphale was disappointed to discover, did not protect one from the new and exciting frontiers of agony consequent upon waking up with a concussion.

And honestly, even just constructing that sentence in his head (well, in _someone’s_ head) was enough to make him ready to slip back into unconsciousness.

But he couldn’t do that.

Because Crowley wouldn’t do that.

Crowley would … Hellish guards shoved Crowley’s manacled body along dingy, evil-smelling corridors that were nonetheless eerily reminiscent of the sterile, well-lit halls of Heaven. Crowley would … Shadowy corners evoked the memory of an almost-empty church, lit only by candles. Of Nazi spies, and double agents. And of a certain sharp-suited demon, looking both impossibly ridiculous and unbearably charming, as he pranced up the aisle on burning feet, and rakishly tipped his snap-brim hat to imminent destruction.

Crowley would be _debonair_. Crowley would be _suave_. Crowley would face the end like one of those absurd cinematic action heroes he so enjoyed.

Crowley would know what to do. And he would do it with _style_.

So Aziraphale took a deep breath, then squared the shoulders of his borrowed corporation. And if he couldn’t quite imitate the demon’s snake-hipped saunter, he was sufficiently confident of his deadpan sarcastic tone as he stepped into an enormous transparent cube to say, “Hey guys. Nice place you’ve got here.”

~o*0*o~

Crowley thought that he had braced himself for every conceivable torture that Heaven could throw at him.

Funny enough, he’d never considered boredom.

Yet here he was, inside Aziraphale’s corporation, tied to an uncomfortable white chair, in the middle of an enormous white room, quite empty of anything except an endless view of lofty white buildings against an infinite white sky. (Crowley had been proud of the minimalist aesthetic of his Mayfair flat, but the celestial interior decorators made his look like a Victorian bordello by way of an opium den.) And here he had been stuck for _hours_.

Maybe days.

Maybe centuries.

What did Time even _mean_ in the Perpetual Penthouse?

( _No_ , Crowley’s essence admonished the neurons among which he currently lurked. The vocabulary might be his, but the inclination to wander off on tangents belonged to the angel.)

It just wasn’t _fair_. 

For the first time in literally Forever, he was in the most intensely consecrated precincts in the cosmos, looking through a pair of eyes well-suited to the most sublime of visual delights, and there wasn’t anything worth looking _at_.

If he ever again had the chance to sightsee on holy ground without exploding into flames, Heaven was definitely crossed off the vacation list.

He lolled back the head of this body and thought about where he’d rather go instead. Some of those Renaissance sacred masterpieces immediately came to mind, although he’d already seen most of them in various studios. Raphael had even used him as model for one of the background figures in _The School of Athens_ ; would be fun to see if he could pick himself out after all these years. He’d rather go for something a little less cliché, though. He’d always wanted to check out the inside view of Chagall’s stained glass at the Fraumünster. The Blue Mosque, maybe. The Hurva Synagogue, definitely. Whatever that thing was that Rothko designed in Texas.

It wouldn’t be any fun without Aziraphale along.

He wriggled the body’s shoulders, trying to get more comfortable. Fortunately, this corporation was much more accustomed to sitting primly upright for hours (days, centuries), but this was not the bookshop’s shabby old armchair. Yet despite the shining, tightly-knotted cords, he was able to ease the angel’s muscular forearms into a less unnaturally flexed position. A grin slid across the face. _Sneaky angel_.

The demon had been a bit surprised at first when this body automatically had tensed upon being bound. Even without the angel’s guiding control, Crowley had not thought the corporation would betray the smallest indication of anxiety. All the time he had known the angel, even in the most personally dangerous situations, Aziraphale had never demonstrated anything but a mild petulance at the inconveniences that might ensue. 

Fuck these fucking fuckers. How _dare_ they scare his angel?

Aziraphale was _brave_. Braver than any being the demon had ever encountered; recklessly brave, almost suicidally brave. Had he not just proved it yesterday? Threatening something the angel loved—threatening _everything_ the angel loved—provoked fury, not fear. Nothing frightened him, except the possibility of failing to live up to his own impossibly high standards. 

Fair enough, the likelihood of ontological destruction by his (former) Heavenly colleagues might be a bit more desperate than any previous mess. But Crowley was certain that the angel’s dominant emotion would not be terror for himself, but disappointment at _them_.

Then he remembered Aziraphale’s fondness for human magic.

True, his preference was for Maskelyne’s sleight-of-hand (equally true, he wasn’t any good at it). But there was no chance that Aziraphale hadn’t also practiced Houdini-style escapology sufficiently to ingrain certain techniques and tricks into muscle memory. If Crowley wanted out of these restraints, even with their miracled knots, he was sure that the angel’s clever fingers would have him free in no time at all.

But that wasn’t the plan ( _Aziraphale’s_ plan, Crowley was rubbish at plans). So he would simply make himself a little less uncomfortable, and wait. Like Aziraphale would have.

What _would_ the angel have done during these interminable minutes (months, millennia)? He wouldn’t fidget and thrash and curse, like the demon wanted to do. He wouldn’t excuse and lie and plead, like the demon always had.

He’d read a book, that’s what he’d do. 

Even if there weren’t any books at hand, Aziraphale had undoubtedly stored several lifetimes worth of literature in that magnificently methodical mind of his. Just replaying the entirety of Shakespeare’s works (comparing the merits of a dozen productions of each, if Crowley knew his angel) would while away the foreseeable future. But the demon didn’t dare to rummage through this body’s memories. Aziraphale probably used a shelving system for his brain even more idiosyncratic than the one in his bookshop. With Crowley’s luck, he’d go searching for _Casino Royale_ and end up retrieving _Winnie-the-Pooh_.

(The demon couldn’t even with those books. He always cried at the last sentence of _The House at Pooh Corner_.)

So what else would Aziraphale do? Crowley allowed the mouth to twitch into a small smile.

He knew _that_. Aziraphale would make himself a cup of tea.

He knew _exactly_ _how_ Aziraphale would make himself a cup of tea.

No miracles would be involved (except for the astonishing ongoing miracle that was his angel’s existence). No, first he’d peruse the cupboard filled with boxes and tins, choosing just the right blend for the circumstances. Past time for a breakfast tea, of course, but perhaps not the customary midmorning Earl Grey, even substituting a calming lavender for the more traditional bergamot. It had been a most _trying_ day so far, therefore something more … fortifying. Ah! A robust lapsang souchang, that would do nicely! Then Aziraphale would open the tin, taking a deep, appreciative breath of the smokey scent, the almost bacon-like topnotes. 

Crowley sighed softly along with the angel’s corporation.

Then off to pop the kettle on the stove—no electric kettle for his angel, who insisted against all science and reason that heating on the gas range added an ineffable _something_ to the flavour—and to choose the appropriate teapot. Nothing too elegant or fussy this morning; his favourite Chatham (round, sturdy, earthy, in a pleasant shade of cream) instead. Time to take the whistling kettle off the hob, pour _just_ a bit into the pot and swirl it about before dumping it in the sink. Add a spoonful of loose tea for each cup, plus one for the pot, and then the water, now cooled a fraction to avoid boiling off the delicate flavour-rich oils. 

Let it steep for four-and-a-half minutes precisely, while picking out a teacup… Ah, yes, the novelty mug that Crowley had gifted him, the one with the angel wings for a handle, normally reserved for cocoa but today had been a bit _much_ , really, and he could use the comfort … and now to pour through the strainer, a lovely rich amber with a hint of burgundy, oh my, and to add one, no, _two_ lumps of Demerara, and a splash of cream.

Fingers twitched as Crowley held the imaginary cup for just a moment, eyes closed as he savoured the fragrant steam that curled above it. He lifted it to soft pink lips, careful not to scald, and …

“Ah, Aziraphale. So glad you could join us.”

~o*0*o~

Aziraphale had to say that he was a bit impressed.

One could hardly call it a _fair_ trial, of course; but a trial it most certainly was, complete with judge, barristers, witnesses, and jury. He should have expected something of the sort, what with the little hints Crowley had dropped about his dealings with Hell. Lacking the innate sense of righteousness that guided the agents of Heaven, Hell’s denizens had to fall back on scrupulously observed forms and procedures. (Only demons bothered with contracts, after all.)

Aziraphale had been careful to say as little as possible, since he hadn’t been quite entirely clear as to what-all his impetuous demon had been up to. More to the point, he didn’t think he could pull off Crowley-level insouciant banter.

The verdict had been as expected, and (if he were to discard his own bias) most likely objectively correct. All in all, he thought, Crowley had been a touch, well, _melodramatic_ in his frantic insistence that the angel shouldn’t risk going to Hell in his place. Kindly meant, of course, but that was Crowley for you. Always so protective. 

He had surely misinterpreted that prophecy. Agnes Nutter couldn’t really have meant that Heaven would behave so _reprehensibly_. The archangels would undoubtedly be upset, no question; the demon was probably in for a terrific scold, poor fellow.

He did hope that Gabriel wouldn’t shout at him too loudly.

Oh, Beelzebub was asking him something. They must have been a perfectly darling angel (not that it was the Done Thing, not at all, to speculate about that particular topic); even as a Prince of Hell, they demonstrated a certain verminous charm. 

They were asking him to speak on his own behalf. There was so _much_ he wanted to say. About Crowley, that is. How beautiful he was, all scarlet and black and molten gold. How brilliant, with his quicksilver wit. How gentle and thoughtful and generous. 

Everything about him, really; little things, yet so terribly precious: how he preferred red wine to white, the drier the better. How he would never eat anything on his own plate, but would always sneak a bite or two from Aziraphale’s. How he would spend hours perfecting his “look” before going out, and then never glance into a mirror for the rest of the evening. How he favoured comedies over tragedies, songs over instrumental music, Art Deco over Surrealism. How he would deflect any attempt a compliment with exaggerated bravado. How he hated for his feet to get wet and cold. How he would make the tiniest little coughing bark in the back of his throat before letting out a full laugh. How very much Aziraphale …

Well. None of that was likely to help at this particular moment. And all of those details belonged to _Aziraphale_ , anyhow. He treasured them. He wasn’t going to just _give them away_.

Instead, he simply shrugged the body’s shoulders. “What’s it going to be, then? An eternity in the deepest pit?”

That wouldn’t be so very bad. There was eternity, and there was _eternity_. Crowley wouldn’t let it come to that. He’d think of something. 

He would come for Aziraphale, just as he always did. The demon took such delight in playing the dashing rescuer, and the angel simply adored letting himself be rescued. It was a game they had played for centuries; and if a certain Principality had entertained fantasies of indulging in the trope’s traditional denouement, that was nobody’s business but his own.

There was one time he had _almost_ “gone there”, as the young people might say. After that business with his books, and the Blitz. Crowley had given him a lift back to the bookshop, and had spoken so softly and gently, that Aziraphale had done the bravest thing he had ever done in his entire infinite existence, and invited him in. 

He had thought of putting some music on his gramophone, melancholy songs filled with yearning. Of taking the demon’s hands in his own, as if it were the merest lark, asking _Shall we?_ Of pulling him close, nestling his head against Crowley’s shoulder, swaying together all through the night, all through the darkness, all through the horrors of this and every war since before the Beginning. All alone in their own private Eden.

 _Come in for a nightcap_ , he had said. But he had meant (and he had hoped that Crowley heard, hoped so hard that it _had_ to be true): _Come in for anything, anything you like_. 

But Crowley had looked tired, and shook his head, and that was that.

And it was only now, eighty years later, when Aziraphale could feel for himself the still-throbbing ropy scars a mere five-minute stroll through a church had wreaked upon an occult corporation, that he realized there would not, could not have been any dancing that night. Might never be.

After that, how could a mere eternity in a pit hold any terrors?

The demons were laughing at him. (Laughing at _Crowley_ , and that was not to be borne.) Laughing, and looking at tall shape emerging from an elevator door.

Without the angel quite realizing it, the body tasted the air, and the pupil-slits narrowed. The stench, er, _fragrance_ of Grace was horribly strong, and even more horribly out of place in this parody of a courtroom. Through serpentine eyes, Aziraphale watched an entity ablaze with fierce holy light, elegant with a stern military gait, one that he would have recognized anywhere, march improbably into the very heart of Hell.

Heaven was … _colluding_ with Hell? This was _unprecedented_ , and he said as much.

Most of the demons wouldn’t have been as familiar with Michael—they wouldn’t have seen her since the War, although it would be hard to forget the very avatar of Divine Wrath, charging at the forefront of the victorious Heavenly Host—but they shrank away from her nonetheless. Well, away from her, and from the tall crystal pitcher she bore. 

Aziraphale still couldn’t quite process what these senses were telling him. “That’s … holy water.”

Michael sniffed with contempt. “The holiest, yes.” 

Every molecule of the demon’s corporation wanted to recoil in panic. It knew what holy water would do to an infernal body. But Aziraphale knew even better what it would do to an occult being who happened to be occupying that body. That was why he had been so reluctant to supply even a scant pint so long ago. That was why he had nearly destroyed the most important relationship of his existence out of the desperate need to protect his best friend from this innocent-looking liquid.

A substance so dangerous that a moment of carelessness could obliterate Crowley’s very essential self, as if the gorgeous, gallant, irreplaceable demon had never been.

And now the _Archangel Fucking Michael_ was providing gallons to the Powers of Hell. So they could _shove his demon in._

No one present, observing the cool, urbane affect of the condemned prisoner, could have realized that the Principality cradled within that corporation was now gripped by a rage so transcendent that he attained an ethereal sublimity he had previously only briefly touched once before, when transported by joy at the moment of Creation.

All they saw was a doomed Serpent indulge in flippant gallows humour about ruining his new suit.

Aziraphale wasn’t joking. He had made a few stylish modifications to that jacket, and there was no permissible outcome in which he wasn’t going to see Crowley wearing it. 

But first, he had a bath to take. And he was going to _make_ _every one of the Nine Circles_ _CHOKE ON IT._

~o*0*o~

For a demon, Crowley had never really been very good at the whole “hate” thing.

Now, listening to Gabriel mockingly address Aziraphale as “ _sunshine_ ”, he figured he was getting the hang of it.

What did Gabriel—what did _any_ of these wankers—know about sunshine?

Snakes understood sunshine. How it would freely give light to the most unlikely places: on a walled Garden, innocent and freshly born; in the smile of an enemy, beaming with welcome and gratitude; through deluges, dungeons, the dark interior of a vintage car.

How it would pour upon the blackest, most desolate ( _heart of_ ) stone, leaving behind a warmth that would linger for decades.

How it would seek out every hidden ( _horrific_ ) crack and cranny, grimy with ash and dirt, and refuse to retreat; would inexorably illuminate, examine, clean, and ever-so-tenderly encourage a seed to sprout, to grow, to unfurl in response.

Crowley was going to slap that word out of Gabriel’s mouth.

No. He wasn’t. Had to be Aziraphale now, and Aziraphale wouldn’t do that. Aziraphale would bear patiently. Aziraphale would forgive. Aziraphale would demonstrate courtesy and restraint and gently urge that purple-eyed pillock to be the angel he was created to be. 

Even if the fuckwing _kept on talking_. “You’re going to like this, Aziraphale. Bet you didn’t see this one coming.” And a demon walked into the room, carrying a brazier …

… and didn’t catch on fire. What the _Heaven_?

Oh. Oh, _bugger_. Aziraphale’s body didn’t flinch, didn’t shrink, but nonetheless every hair stood on end. The other angels in the room took several steps back.

This couldn’t possibly be all there was to it. Even in Hell, an accused demon had … well, not _rights_ , that would be ridiculous, but there were _rules_. Protocols. Forms. Checklists. Violate standard procedures, upset established hierarchies, and there would be Hell to pay. (Literally; and the Lord of the Files did not accept Venmo.)

But Heaven didn’t provide a trial. Heaven hadn’t allowed for a defense. Heaven didn’t show the slightest interest in anything one of their wayward children might want to say. ( _Or ask_.)

Heaven hadn’t even respected Aziraphale enough to demand a Duke of Hell. Heaven had permitted a sodding _Eric_ to do their dirty work.

Crowley forced the jaw muscles to un-clench. 

The bloody Disposable was asking to _hit_ his angel, and Sandalphon was grinning in permission. Crowley instinctively summoned his scales and fangs, only succeeding in confusing this corporation mightily. ( _Eyes? What would I want with several thousand eyes?_ )

Besides, Aziraphale wouldn’t fight back. His stupid, soft, compassionate angel would _turn the other cheek_ , or some such bollocks. Crowley tried to imitate a certain merciful expression that burned in his memory; but judging by the way the demon hastily stepped back, he failed utterly. Crowley was okay with that.

In the center of the vast room, hellfire rose in a swirling pillar. The other angels cringed away, but Crowley just regarded it with simmering anger. Uriel gave the flames a wide berth as they circled around to free the prisoner from his bonds. As they bent down, Crowley searched their eyes for any hint of guilt or regret. He saw none.

He rose and straightened his clothing in an unhurried fashion. Aziraphale, he knew, would simply _have_ to give Heaven one more chance. One final appeal to their better angelic natures. One last word. (Angel _always_ had to have the last word.) “Lovely knowing you all. May we meet on a better occasion.”

“Shut your stupid mouth and die already,” Gabriel sneered. 

Right then. Crowley stepped into the hellfire.

Aziraphale’s plan was going to work.

It had _better_ work.

Because if it didn’t …

… well, Crowley didn’t know what kind of afterlife (if any) was available to immortal entities who all-of-a-sudden weren’t. 

But Crowley was going to construct one out of sheer spite and _haunt these cunts FOREVER_.

~o*0*o~


	3. Anna-Three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An angel and a demon survive their executions.   
> Heaven and Hell set them free.   
> A table opens up at the Ritz.   
> Everything is tickety-boo…  
> Yay?

~o*0*o~

It really was a very nice bath. 

Steaming hot and scented might have been better, although he wasn’t quite sure which fragrances this corporation would prefer. Still, when one was in Hell, and internally _ablaze with incandescent fury_ , a cool bath could be most refreshing.

Aziraphale had disrobed slowly, taking the opportunity to extend his angelic essence throughout every cell of the demon’s corporation. The body had resisted; he wasn’t sure whether it feared to be harmed by his Grace or didn’t want the angel to experience the pain it endured, but he suspected the latter. He was quite firm, nevertheless: _This is for your own good, my dear_.

He had refused to remove the black silk vest and boxers. He rather thought that Crowley wouldn’t have cared, but he wanted to afford this body as much dignity as he could. (Also, he would have felt somewhat the voyeur; blushing would certainly not have improved his impersonation attempt.)

Besides, this gave him an excuse to retain the socks. He felt quite protective of Crowley’s scars; after all, the demon had incurred so much damage on Aziraphale’s behalf, and he didn’t think that Hell knew about them (they would have been a bit difficult to explain). Aziraphale had carefully propped both feet on either side of the tub; he wasn’t sure if immersing them in holy water would soothe or make things even worse, and this didn’t seem the time to find out.

Now the angel lounged ostentatiously, almost achieving Crowley’s effortless bone-free posture. He hummed under his breath, just loud enough to be heard. The demon hardly ever allowed anyone to catch him singing, apparently ashamed of the way his angelic voice had been ripped away (quite a foolish embarrassment, in Aziraphale’s opinion; celestial harmonies were simply in the job description. Look at him—Aziraphale had perfect pitch and could pull off a barbershop quartet all by himself—yet nobody was recruiting _him_ for _Britain’s Got Talent._ )

But once or twice the angel had noted Crowley humming along to the music playing in his Bentley, when it was a tune he particularly enjoyed. There was one rousing little march that seemed peculiarly appropriate to these circumstances; and Aziraphale was not displeased to realize that the demon’s hands were splashing holy bathwater at the panicking onlookers in time to the beat of an off-key murmur: (swish, swish, FLICK; swish, swish, FLICK) _We will, we will, rock you_ (swish, swish, FLICK; swish, swish, FLICK) .

A-ha! That was the trick, then. He didn’t need to _direct_ this corporation; it knew how to be Crowley far better than Aziraphale ever would. And surely it had suffered, suffered awfully, from both the vengeance of Heaven and the viciousness of Hell; suffered possibly as much as had the demon’s very essence. It would be a … a _mercy_ , the angel thought, to exorcise ( _ha!_ ) all that resentment and bitterness and anger.

Aziraphale simply had to let go. 

He had to give permission to indulge in glorious (no, _reprehensible_ , surely, Aziraphale was still an angel, but needs must in the right cause) demonic mischief and, and _foment_ , everything this corporation had learned over thousands of years.

All the angel needed to do was guard and protect. 

He narrowed serpentine eyes at the dumbstruck rulers of Hell. They didn’t look _nearly_ afraid enough. Aziraphale nudged Crowley’s memories with thoughts of all the times they had stood side by side at the duckpond in St. James’s Park. “I don’t suppose …” he began to drawl.

~o*0*o~

_Bless_ , it felt good finally to be warm again!

Crowley rolled the angel’s head and cracked his shoulders in a gesture that was pure Aziraphale. He wished he could unfurl his wings as well—he had been tied to an ice-cold chair for a long time—but wings were bound up with True Forms, and he didn’t want to muddle things by accidentally manifesting his own silky black feathers.

Right now, he was grinning at a room filled with extremely dismayed and confused archangels, and he couldn’t deny that it was a satisfying sight. 

Not satisfying enough, however. He wanted them more than spooked. They deserved to be _petrified_. 

He remembered one of the few times that he had been privileged to witness Aziraphale’s unguarded opinions on his superiors. It was early in the nineteenth century, before things had gone pear-shaped, and they were more than halfway to spectacularly sloshed. Somehow they had wandered into reminiscences about Sodom and Gomorrah. He could still hear the angel’s tight voice shaking with anger, still see the knife clenched in his white-knuckled grip actually burst into flames, as Aziraphale described the towering archangelic snit-fit that had been hastily written up in any number of conflicting memos… all as a cover up for what had been nothing less than mass murder by way of Heavenly tantrum. Aziraphale had knocked back pint after pint, furious to the point of tears, until he finally passed out on the table without sobering up. 

(Crowley had dragged him to a bed upstairs and paid for the room before leaving. They hadn’t met up again until several years later, and neither of them ever mentioned the incident.)

_These_ were the hypocritical arseholes who were trying to erase the best, most perfect of Her creations for the unforgivable crime of trying to stop their bloody pissing match.

He delicately fed the memory of that drunken evening back into Aziraphale’s brain. No one knew better than the Serpent of Eden the razor-thin line between tempting someone to fall, and setting someone free.

It felt like turning a key, like cracking open synapses that had been kept under strict seal for thousands of years. His mind flooded with images: a confused jumble of raining sulphur, foaming waves, rivers of lava, earthquakes, fields sere and burnt, broken bodies, and over everything a high keening wail of grief. He didn’t know for sure what, exactly. he was seeing (what he was _remembering_ ), but he was certain that the angel’s corporation recognized every single scene.

Crowley felt the body’s heartrate accelerate. Cortisol and adrenaline poured into the blood. Skin became shiny with sweat. Muscles tensed and flexed. A volcano of long-suppressed wrath was stirring within.

Then, in perfect accord, the demon in the angel’s corporation sucked in great lungfuls of hellfire…

… and _erupted_.

_Now_ that _was playing with fire._

~o*0*o~

Serpent eyes notified Aziraphale of the glint of Grace and flicker of motion even before the elevator doors opened for Michael’s return, followed immediately by her aghast, “Oh, Lord.”

“Duuude,” Crowley’s voice caroled, waving a lazy hand for a bathtowel. The angel was pleased to see the others scramble back, as Beelzebub hastily cleared the courtroom of low-level spectators. Aziraphale didn’t want to go so far as to provoke an actual riot in Hell, risking innocent… that is, risking neutral … well, risking anyone _else_. 

Besides, the less they actually _knew_ of what Crowley was currently capable, the more they would _speculate._ Even within the limited capacities of (most) demons, imagination was always more fearsome than confirmation. 

But Aziraphale wasn’t finished yet. He needed to make some sort of display. Something worthwhile for Michael to report back to Heaven. Something to convince _both_ sides to pretend it never happened, and leave their former agents in peace. “I think,” and he urged the demon’s voice to drench the words with every drop of menace at its disposal, “that it would be best—for _everyone_ —if I were left alone in the future.”

_Darling_ , he whispered to Crowley’s corporation. _We are going to make you a_ legend _. A being so exquisitely terrifying, so uniquely revolting, that the denizens of Hell will only whisper stories about him when they want to frighten each other into bad behavior. Just bear with me a few minutes longer_.

And there, in the courtroom of Hell, on the day after the world didn’t end… Crowley’s nose crinkled _delightfully_ ; and the demonic eyes of the very Serpent of Eden displayed the most _adorable_ _twinkle_ that ever had been, or ever will be, witnessed in the Stygian depths Beneath.

Stupefied with horror, one archangel and three infernal lords all nodded their heads in mute agreement.

~o*0*o~

Mission accomplished.

Everything was _fine_.

Crowley sprawled on the park bench, not caring that he was probably creasing Aziraphale’s jacket, grumpily checking for observant humans. 

It’d been fun, seeing things through Aziraphale’s eyes (well, except for the parts that were boring, or enraging, or downright terrifying, and come to think of it, it hadn’t been _fun_ at all), but now it was _over_. Back to the auld sod, Crowley. Do you good, bring the world back into proper focus, all that. 

Besides, the angel was probably impatient to get out of the nasty thing.

The demon reached out to grip his own hand (and that was rough, and bony, and plain _weird_ , not at all like Aziraphale’s soft manicured fingers) to kick-off the transfer back. He took it slow and careful, fastidiously double- and triple-checking to make sure he didn’t leave any lingering traces of demonic essence to stain the bright purity of the angel’s corporation. It didn’t help any that the stupid body kept protesting— _Must you leave? Are you sure you don’t want to stay a little longer?_ —and snatching at stray wisps of Crowley, for all the world like he was some sort of cherished guest.

Soon enough, however, whatever it was that made Crowley, well, _Crowley_ , was flowing down one arm, up the other, and the demon was settling back into his own familiar corporation, hissing slightly at the familiar aches and pains, rolling his spine, shaking out his fingers, quickly riffling through the transcripts his neurons had recorded of the previous hours… 

Wait. Aziraphale had done _what_? Crowley’s jaw dropped a bit as he rewound the metaphorical memory tapes, only to be distracted by a muttered groan to his right.

The angel seemed to be processing his own re-integration with an uncomfortable shudder. Crowley hoped that it wasn’t any accidentally-missed bits of himself causing such distress. Then he kind of hoped that it _was_ , because otherwise the only alternatives were that either Aziraphale was unhappy to realize how Heaven had treated his corporation, or (even worse) he was _really_ unhappy to find out how _Crowley_ had.

Time for a quick subject change. With a dismissive comment about Aziraphale’s taste, he quickly miracled his collar from tartan (honestly!) back to its proper scarlet and smirked at the other’s disappointed pout. Whatever Crowley had done with his _body_ , at least he hadn’t mucked about with the angel’s _clothes_. (Would never)

But Aziraphale seemed far more interested in confiding the details of his shocking behaviour in Hell. Crowley couldn’t help laughing, not so much at his antics (although the look on Hastur’s face was hilarious) as at the sheer joy the angel seemed to take in his own naughtiness. The way Aziraphale beamed after making his friend laugh warmed Crowley more than standing in a pillar of hellfire; it was like watching the sun rise over Eden on the first day of the world.

So _of course_ Crowley had to screw everything up by reminding Aziraphale that it wasn’t _really_ over; the “big one”, the showdown between the conjoined forces of Heaven and Hell against all of humanity, was still on the agenda.

Still, that was an easy mis-step to retrieve. All he had to do was bring up lunchtime, and Aziraphale’s eyes lit up and his torso gave a delighted wriggle. Going out for lunch, of course, meant the Ritz; and lunch turned into tea, and tea in turn hung around for dinner, and dinner just gave up and went straight to dessert, and they chatted and laughed and toasted and argued and everything was back to the way it had always been, only better.

And all this was _fine_. This was better than fine, this was _great_. All of it. Apocalypse, collapsed. World, saved. Him, here, with his angel, his _friend_ , with his lovely hands fluttering, pretty pink lips smiling, ocean-bright eyes coyly peeking beneath lowered lashes. Free, both of them, free of Heaven and Hell, free to … well, to do this. Being together, no longer hiding.

This was more than he deserved. This is more than he had ever dared to dream of. This was abso-bloody _perfect_.

He was _happy_.

He was so fucking happy that if there hadn’t already been a nightingale busily _jug-jug-jug_ ging it in Berkeley Square, he would have slithered up that tree and started warbling himself.

_Really_.

~o*0*o~

The afternoon had been lovely, and the evening perfect, and Aziraphale just knew that he was about to ruin everything. But he still was determined to speak. _Had_ to. He simply couldn’t live with himself if he didn’t.

Crowley (of course) had offered a lift back to the bookshop, and the angel (of course) had agreed. Both of them were quiet on the drive, but that wasn’t unusual. It was a comfortable silence; the kind that old friends might share, who knew each other too well to need to say anything. Upon arriving at their destination, the demon had stayed in the driver’s seat. Aziraphale lingered by the open passenger door. “Nightcap?”

“Eh, been a long day, angel,” Crowley demurred. 

Well, at least that wasn’t an outright refusal. “Somewhere you need to be tomorrow morning early, I daresay?” he persisted. 

The demon gave him a long look. Aziraphale now knew that the darkness inside the Bentley made no difference to Crowley’s vision, so he tried very hard to radiate heat in a hopeful and welcoming fashion (although it felt more than a little ridiculous). The demon gave a one-shouldered shrug and answered, “Not really.” 

Aziraphale nearly collapsed in relief. He didn’t think he could have endured waiting who knows how long for this particular conversation.

He led the way to the backroom, and miracled up a pair of wineglasses, then reconsidered. He snapped his fingers to replace them with a couple of crystal snifters. “Calvados, my dear?” 

“Don’t mind if I do.”

Aziraphale poured them each a generous three fingers’ worth, and perched on his customary armchair. Crowley insinuated himself into the sofa and saluted with his brandy. “All right then, angel. S’obvious there’s something on your mind. Go ahead, spit it out.” He took a swallow of straw-yellow liquor and added, “Metaphorically, if you don’t mind.”

“Yes. Well.” Aziraphale toyed with his own glass, then set it back down. He decided to forego his customary roundaboutation. “Crowley. Today, when I was inhabiting your corporation … that is to say, it became very clear that … Oh, my dear, I am so terribly sorry. Truly, I did not know.”

Crowley looked like he had been suddenly turned to stone. A very very _red_ stone. Jasper, perhaps, or carnelian. “Lots of things you don’t know, angel,” he answered lightly, staring fixedly at the other side of room. “Care to narrow that down a bit?”

Aziraphale twisted his fingers together. “The _pain_ , Crowley, of course. You never told me… well, obviously, it is none of my business, but … I wish I had known earlier. That it … hurt … like that. Being… what you are.”

“ _Demon_ , Aziraphale, I know you can say the word. Threw it at me often enough.” Crowley shrugged, apparently relaxed again. “S’not a big deal. Like I said, you get used to it.”

“I suppose, but … I don’t _like_ it, my dear.” The demon snorted, and Aziraphale frowned. “It … it isn’t _fair_. I … wish I could _fix_ it.”

“You can’t.” Crowley spoke with absolute certainty.

“No, I don’t believe that I can,” he said with sincere regret. “I am truly sorry.”

Crowley let out a bark of laughter. “Is _that_ what’s got you tied up in knots? Seriously, angel, thanks for the concern, but it’s fine. Really fine. Comes in handy, sometimes, as I’m sure someone as clever as you already discovered.” He took another sip of his drink, completely at ease. “’Preciate the sentiment, though. Don’t give it another thought.”

“Well, but Crowley,” Aziraphale continued. “I do think that I can, um, repair, well … the _other_.”

“Other?” The demon rolled his head to look over at the angel.

“You know.” Embarrassed, Aziraphale waved his hand towards the back of the sofa, where Crowley’s long legs were draped. “Your _feet_.”

“Nothing wrong with my feet, angel.”

“Don’t lie to me, Crowley!” Aziraphale didn’t know why he was angry. “I was in your body, I could see it, I could _feel_ it! It must be eighty years now, but those burns are still just _ghastly_ , and I could heal them, if you’d let me!”

The demon set down his brandy now, and sat up. “My. Feet. Are. FINE, Aziraphale. Don’t go fixing things what don’t need it.”

“But my _dear_ …”

“Lisssten to me, angel.” Oh, and now Crowley was truly upset. He wouldn’t have let his lisp slip out otherwise. Aziraphale felt wretched. “No, sstop it. You don’t undersstand. Those sscarsssssss…” The demon paused, swallowed, and visibly forced himself back into control. “Those burns. They’re … they’re not like the others. From … from Falling. I _earned_ those scarss, Aziraphale. I _chose_ them. It’s not the ssame.”

“Crowley, I can respect that. I … I _honor_ that. But it’s not healthy to choose to suffer. It’s not _right_. Not when you don’t have to.” Why wouldn’t this stubborn demon just _listen_?

“Not your business.”

“Not my business? _Not my business_? Crowley, I am not an _idiot._ I know exactly where those burns came from! How do you think _I_ feel? That every step you take, have taken, for _decades_ , causes you such agony, and it’s _my FAULT_?” Aziraphale buried his face in one hand. “Let me heal them, dearest. Please. So you don’t have to be reminded.”

“Don’t.” Crowley’s hand seized Aziraphale’s wrist, uncovering the angel’s face. Aziraphale stared at the fingers against his skin, startled. The demon let go suddenly, as if the angel had threatened to smite him. “I’m ssorry, I’m sssssorry, but pleasse _._ I don’t … I _want_ to remember. Every day. Every step.” The demon drew a ragged breath. “Don’t … don’t take that away from me. Angel, _please_.”

The urgency in Crowley’s voice managed to pierce through the miasma of guilt and self-blame surrounding Aziraphale. He scrubbed away the tears that still shimmered in his eyes. “I … apologize. Sincerely. I didn’t mean to … overstep.” But the demon’s words had stirred an echo in his memory, a song he hadn’t heard for, oh, it must be decades. He looked at Crowley, and said nothing more. Just … looked.

Oh.

_Oh._

Oh, Aziraphale really _was_ an idiot.

He looked, and slowly worked his way through the events of the past day. The past week. The past eleven years. The past six thousand years. He thought about all that had been lost over those years: Individuals. Languages. Civilizations. Continents. Species.

Innocence. Convictions. _Sides_.

He thought about the few, the very few, things that had never been lost. Never wavered. Things, he was suddenly sure, that he could not continue to exist without.

Crowley was squirming under his silent regard.

Forever, Aziraphale considered, was a long time. A very long time. Not that he was complaining; he was quite looking forward to it. He had _hopes_ for Forever, indeed he did.

“Um? Angel?” The demon sounded a bit worried.

But _Right Now_ was lovely, too. And if all that time had taught the angel anything, it was that Right Now was all they had.

Aziraphale stood. “My dear. If … if you are absolutely certain, then, that it won’t bother your feet too badly … there’s something that I have wanted to try. For … for quite some time now.” He held out both hands. “Shall we?”

Crowley looked at those hands uncertainly, then shrugged. “Yeah. All right.” He rose sinuously to his feet, and took the angel’s fingers in his own cool grasp. “Why not?”

_Oh, my dearest. When have you_ ever _told me_ no _?_

Aziraphale freed one hand briefly to snap his fingers, and the lights dimmed to a golden glow. A vinyl record slid smoothly onto the antique gramophone. Trumpets from a swing orchestra filled the shop with a sweet silver melody, and Crowley let out a small chuckle. “Bebop, Angel? Really?”

“It isn’t _bebop_ , you dreadful thing, it’s Sinatra. A classic.”

The vocalist had been more than a little bit of a bastard, but there was no doubt that he had the voice of an angel. Or at least, Aziraphale thought, there was no harm at letting Sinatra be the voice of one _particular_ angel. Singing the words he could not say himself. Not _yet_ , anyways. 

Forever _was_ a very long time.

_There are many many crazy things  
That will keep me loving you  
And with your permission  
May I list a few…_

Aziraphale stepped in a little closer. His head, he was pleased to discover, fit perfectly against his demon’s bony shoulder, just like he had always suspected it would. Crowley stiffened, then cautiously relaxed. The angel could feel Crowley’s completely gratuitous heartbeat as they swayed to the melody. Oh, he _knew_ that heart now, every thump and stutter of it, as well as he knew the steady rhythm of his own.

He hoped he was correct about the emotions that might fill it.

_The way you wear your hat  
The way you sip your tea…_

Crowley’s chin tilted a bit, his cheek resting gently amid the angel’s curls. One long hand slid up Aziraphale’s arm, then around to nestle at the small of his back. 

_…The way you changed my life  
No, no they can't take that away from me  
No, they can't take that away from me._

  
END

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Woof, that was a loooong chapter. I hope it was worth it for the soft landing I tried to give our idiot husbands.
> 
> Once again, I am absolutely floored by the response to this fic. I treasure each and every comment and kudos.

**Author's Note:**

> Title, inspiration, and pretty much the entire rest of the story are from the song by Gershwin.  
> If you can't wait for the rest, and you've never heard it before, it's worth a few minutes to listen to one of the many many covers. Sinatra made it his own, but Astaire's the original. The Tony Bennett version best captures the mood of melancholy yearning I'm going for here. If you want a sort of "Nightingale Sang in Berkeley Square" vibe, you could do worse than the Sarah Vaughan cover.


End file.
